I Knew It!
by LeiaPrincess21
Summary: Spoilers for 2x3  Reichenbach Fall  Assumed previous romantic relationship between Sherlock/John.  Sherlock finally comes back in a wonderfully "Sherlock" way. T for language.


**AN: Why? Because fuck you that's why. Also because of reasons. I will spend the next until series 3 coming up with ways for Sherlock to come back. Assuming established romance because….I say so. **

Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead. John was sure of it. It started out as desperation. He needed Sherlock to still be alive. They were best friends and lovers when no one was looking. It wasn't official but it didn't need to be. Sherlock knew he had John's heart and that was all he needed. John knew Sherlock loved him even if he expressed it in a uniquely Sherlock way. They didn't need to say anything to anyone else. John wasn't ready to anyways. He was straight but he loved Sherlock. John knew that most people would think he just discovered he was gay. It wasn't like that. It was Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

At first he couldn't imagine Sherlock dead so he made up little scenarios where Sherlock would show up and yell "gotcha!" He played out these scenarios anytime it got too hard to breathe. But then things changed. One night while sleeping, in what was technically Sherlock's room but had been their shared room for at least six months, John had woken up to the sound of footsteps in the main room of the flat. Thinking it was Mrs. Watson cleaning up after him (as she had taken to doing since Sherlock's de—. Since Sherlock left). However, in the morning her found that Sherlock's skull had been moved. John had turned it to face the room. So he could talk to it. Like Sherlock used to. But when he woke up the next day it was facing the kitchen like it used to when Sherlock had been living there still.

John saw it immediately as he greeted it every morning. Like he used to Sherlock. John rushed over to the skull and lifted it to look at it. The package of cigarettes that Sherlock left under there fell out and the cigarettes fell out of the pack. John set the skull back down and began to gather the cigarettes. He had all but one but he couldn't seem to find it. Getting on his hands and knees he checked under the chairs for it. Two hours later John gave up. The cigarette was nowhere. It couldn't be gone. It had to be somewhere. If it was gone it meant—. Only he and Sherlock knew where that pack was hidden. Even if Mycroft or Moriarty did why would they sneak in and take one. It was in that moment that Sherlock began to have actual hope that Sherlock was alive. So he began to search.

After the cigarette he discovered that two of Sherlock's five designer, tailored, and gorgeous suits were gone. Sherlock had been wearing one when he…left. The other had, it seems, gone missing since then. Four shirts, four pairs of pants, and five pairs of socks in total were missing. John knew how many clothes Sherlock had. He had been doing the washing for the two of them for a while now. It had all been there before the incident. John picked up the dry cleaning two days before the incident. It means someone had taken it. The clothes missing were Sherlock's favorites. Only he would have taken those specific shirts and those specific pants (including the silk ones with Santa's on them that John had gotten him for Christmas). John felt his hope grow.

The next thing he noticed was that he was being followed. He didn't know by who but he knew it wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock would never be so messy. That being said, someone was tailing him. Moriarty was dead and even if he wasn't John was ordinary. Moriarty only saw him as a way to play Sherlock. Mycroft came by once a week and didn't feel it necessary to film or follow him anymore. It had to be Sherlock. It just had to. The final straw came five months after Sherlock's disappearance. John woke up to the room smelling like Sherlock. The thick scent of soap and a hint of expensive designer cologne. The smell of arrogance and beauty. That's what Sherlock was; arrogance and beauty. When John got up and went to where Sherlock kept his cologne (expecting to find the bottle overturned) he found it missing.

John found himself in a fit. There was so much evidence that Sherlock was still alive. It was all things he would notice. It was for him! Sherlock could buy the things he had taken from the flat but he had come into the flat and taken them. It was for him. It was all for him. John walked through the streets, angry. After a few hours he finally had enough of the cold and the people and so he turned to go back to the flat. As soon as he opened the front door he knew something was wrong. He'd left the door to the sitting room closed. He had been doing that since the incident. He'd been craving privacy. The door wasn't closed, though. It was open. And Mrs. Hudson had been out when John had left and was still out (probably off with her new beau; the butcher down the way). John took the steps two at a time, hoping even though he dared not to. As he burst into the flat he saw that the room to the bedroom was closed and he'd left it open. Slamming into and opening it with the full force of his body (nearly breaking it in the process) he came into the room.

And there he was. Sherlock. On the bed. Naked. John just stood there and gaped. He was so happy to see the man that was best described as his other half but he was so scared it wasn't real.

"Hello John." Sherlock's voice was filled with arrogance and just a hint of softness. It was the softest his voice ever got and was only used with John.

"Your—you—I—I KNEW IT!" John's voice was filled with the repressed anger of the past months.

"Of course you did. I wanted to you." It was just arrogance now.

"You. You're a fucking bastard did you know that? I've thought you were dead and here you are, starkers, in our bed."

"I know. Consider it a present to say 'I'm sorry'. There were things I had to deal with before I could come back. I'll gladly explain later but I'd rather not just now."

"You think you can make me think you're dead and then just show up for a shag?" John's voice broke when he said the word dead. It always did these days. Sherlock just sat there. His eyebrows were pinched. He was sorry but he didn't know what to say. The clues were for him. Sherlock did the only thing he could to show John he was alive. Now he was doing the only thing he knew to do to say he was sorry. He was still Sherlock. Still broken. But still brilliant.

"You ruddy lout." John ran his hand through his hair as he walked closer to the bed. "You best be ready to make it up to me for at least 12 hours. Those were the worst six months of my life and I'm eager to forget them." Sherlock just smiled and patted the bed.


End file.
